Make Me Feel
by sinfulpirouette
Summary: Buffy has saved Dawn from her fate as the Key. With her death, everyone is struggling to keep intact while simultaneously falling apart. Dawn is not herself. Spike mourns her loss as if she too has left him. Dawn is empty on the inside, and would give anything to feel again. She turns to Spike for that release, and who is he to refuse? SXD ; MATURE.
1. Prologue

Pale grey eyes haunted him. They swam through his mind, refusing to fade despite best efforts.  
>The knot in his chest was adamant, and refused to be soothed by such petty things as cigarettes and alcohol. A cloud of smoke hung low in his crypt, and Spike couldn't be bothered to get up and yank open the door to to air it out. Not that it mattered. His dead lungs would have been blackened years and years prior by his filthy habit. Since Buffy's death, not even the Platelet had been by to brighten his doorstep. Not that he blamed her. The Scooby Gang had been on high alert and working extra hard to keep the belief that Buffy was still alive a reality. Between constant evening slaying sessions with the Buffy-Bot (a group effort, since Willow hadn't yet worked out all the kinks) Dawn was kept inside after dark, where it would be safe. He reasoned he shouldn't be too bothered by this; he had, after all, been given the responsibility of watching over the Bit when they went out. His crypt had never been much to look at before anyway, and he damn well didn't care that it was in shambles now. Who was there to impress? The answer was simple: no one. Not anymore.<p>

It had been a year since Buffys passing. On the outside, they had managed to keep it together quite well. The Buffy-Bot made appearances during the day, and wandered about the cemetery at night with the Scooby Gang in tow. Dawn still attended school, as if nothing had happened, and Willow and Tara had moved in to the Summer's home to look after her. Spike had been thrown in to the equation when after an eventful evening of slaying, the witches had returned to an empty house. They had wandered the neighborhood well in to the morning, to find Dawn asleep in the church four blocks away. She had claimed it offered solace, but they had drawn the line and her freedom was taken away. Willow firmly believed it was for her own good, and the only thing that had seemed to assuage Dawn's reluctance to being "constantly babysat" was the fact that Spike would be the one to do it.

Fake smiles and pleasantries could only go so far, however, and Spike knew on the inside they were all falling apart. How could they not? He was right along with them. Dawn had withdrawn in to herself. He wasn't sure if the others believed her re-assurances when she said, "I'm fine," or, "Don't worry about me," but he could see the smile never reached her eyes, and when they were alone together, there was often silence. The quiet was not uncomfortable, but it disturbed Spike nonetheless. He couldn't recall a day before Buffy's passing when she hadn't excitedly chatted his ear off about this or that. Now they would sit on the couch in the living room and watch television; old cartoon reruns, although he was sure she wasn't aware of what was playing. The colors from the screen would reflect onto her pale, expressionless face, and the emptiness in her eyes was inescapable. She may have been there, beside him, but she was not with him. Where she went, he didn't know, but her expression was enough to keep him from speculating. It hurt to see such a bright and beautiful girl shut down like that. Turn off, completely.

And while she was off somewhere, at school no doubt, living her own personal hell, Spike lay sprawled on his couch right bloody smashed. The sun was far from setting. He had crumbled when Buffy had died. He was lost without her. The only thing he had to look forward to now were his nights with the Bit, but when he was alone, he was surrounded by nothing but his thoughts. They always seemed to go back to her, and he always found a bottle to quiet the mess inside his head. He could have done better. He should have tried harder. He could have killed Gloria when he'd had a chance. Now, Buffy was six feet under and the rest of them were well on their way. He'd experienced loss before. With Vampires, it was simply something you learned to cope with. Demons never really associated with mortals for anything more than sadistic fun or pleasure; in the end, always temporary. It was better that way. He had missed Dru when she had left but Buffy he had loved without a soul, and more so with. He had gone through hell and back to prove this to her, and all he had to show for it now was this crippling pain and and a crypt full of empty liquor bottles. He laughed without humor then, and finished the last of his drink. _I should stop,_ he reasoned, lighting yet another cigarette. The smoke plumed from his mouth and nostrils, and he watched it rise to join the rest of the murky fog just above his head. The grey eyes came back again but he closed his own and welcomed the image. Her fair skin, large and empty stare, expressionless mouth that at one time, curled into a delighted smile upon seeing him. He could remember the sound of Dawn's voice as she babbled, gesturing with her hands to make the story more interesting. Was she a ghost now? Much like her sister it seemed, just an empty shell of the girl she used to be. Spike's gut twisted in regret and in a brief moment of anguish, threw the empty bottle had had been holding across the room. The bottle smashed against the concrete, and shards skittered everywhere, scattering at his feet. He stared at the mess he'd made, his gaze moving over each piece of glass slowly, deliberately.  
>Much like the bottle, as easily as Spike had done it, their lives had been tossed in the air by the fates and shattered to pieces. If this was how he were feeling on the inside, he knew without a doubt that behind her calm demeanor and the poker face she had learned to wear, Dawn was nowhere near okay. The already tenuous fragments of her life had been dismantled, the flimsy thread that held all the pieces together finally yanked loose. A heavy ache settled in his chest then, and leaning forward, he bowed his head and cradled it in his hands. <em>Damn<em>, he thought with a grimace. Feeling was one thing, but hurting down to the very core of your soul was another. It couldn't go on like this. Something needed to be done.


	2. One evil for another

Listless; lifeless, or may as well be. Dawn felt and especially as of late, as if she had lost all of her will. The will to live, drive to go on, the motivation to move forward and climb to the top, or overcome the hurtles life threw her way. Whichever overused, cliche and nauseating metaphor you would prefer, she was simply over all of it. This realization, or epiphany as it were, took some time to slip from the shadows of her muddled and distracted mind to step into the spotlight and scream, "Hey! This is the reality. This is _your_ reality." And the reality was that Buffy was dead.

Dead and buried, just like their mother, and it was because of Dawn that she would never see another sunrise (ironic? Slightly). Her perspective had shifted violently, so much so that she had needed to escape from the Summer's home, where each room had contained some memory or other of a family that had inevitably dwindled down to all but one. She had fled then without much thought to it, and had stopped in front of a Church only blocks away, momentarily surprised by the pull she felt as her gaze lingered. There hadn't been anything extraordinary about the building, really. Dull brown bricks, a few stained glass windows and a large decorated cross that outlined the entryway. The unease and the guilt and all of the pain that had slowly doubled and then tripled since her sister's death seemed to quiet as she stared up at the cross. Although she had never found herself to be truly religious, the sight brought her a sense of peace she had forgotten she had once known, for a very long time.

Admittedly, breaking in to the Church hadn't exactly been the most saintly thing to do and Willow certainly hadn't been pleased, but Dawn had reasoned that if there _was_ a God, (there had to be _something,_ right?) he would understand her reasons behind picking up that heavy, jagged rock spied resting along the outline of an empty parking lot with the rest of the gravel. That He would knowingly accept with kind eyes and forgive, as she weighed it between her palms before hurling it with all of her might, at one of the side windows. Surely he would want his children to be safe, and how could he refuse them in an institution that had been constructed to do his bidding, by the very souls he had been so quick to abandon?

Cynical? Maybe. But in the grand scheme of things, everything which had been given to her had also been taken away. Or as she would describe it, everything had been ripped violently and suddenly without warning from her, but as the Bible would quote, such was His right. At that thought, an onslaught of tears threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes, and Dawn pulled herself out of the well of memories she had slowly begun to drown in. A habit she had developed over the long months since D-Day, and while painful, it was also a way to escape the present - _her reality_. Coasting on auto-pilot wasn't all that hard to do, especially when everyone was preoccupied. They didn't seem to notice. Well, _he_ noticed, and the pressure of his crystalline stare as she came back to herself never failed to set her on edge.

While his posture would suggest that of relaxation, with his arm along the back of the sofa, muscles loose and leg extended, Dawn could feel the tense energy that rippled in almost visible waves around him as he cocked his head and continued his silent observation of her. Swallowing thickly, she forced her own muscles to relax as well, and she sank further back into the cushions alongside him. She could feel the weight of his forearm behind the nape of her neck, and very deliberately, very carefully, continued to keep her gaze locked on the television across the room. She couldn't remember what program had been on when they'd started, and her mind struggled to think of something to say as her brain shifted gears between that of _reminisce _to _here and now_.

Thankfully, Spike saved her the trouble by breaking the silence with his own words. A question, appointed to her, and although relatively simple in presentation, she realized by the tone of voice and carefully constructed mask of nonchalance the true depth behind it. It caused her chest to tighten, and her breathing faltered while she tried to compose herself.

"Are you alright, Dawn?"

"I'm fine."

Even to her. it sounded rehearsed; automatic, empty. Willow might accept the lie, Tara definitely. Giles, the rest of them, they would all latch on to her response and cling to it, forcing it to be the truth, the _reality_ as opposed to the other possibility. Nobody wanted to see her drowning in sorrow, nobody wanted to know or feel her pain, because they were all dealing with their own, too. Dawn figured if they could pretend like nothing happened, that they weren't suffering because of this, then she could don the mask as well. So far it had worked. Or at least it had until now. Hesitantly, she tore her gaze from the television and locked eyes with Spike, who's eyes had remained on her, unwavering, and she realized that she didn't know how long he had been watching her. Dawn forced herself to keep her gaze steady; his a deep blue in the dim light, as opposed to the usual reflective, almost steel gray they truly were. The illusion gave him a softer look than he was usually able to pull off, and as the seconds passed, goosebumps raced up along her arms to her shoulders. The shiver was in response to not only his unabashed stare, but the gentle brush of his cold fingertips along the nape of her neck. Brow furrowed as disbelief claimed dominance over his angular features, he spoke in a voice that was gentle, but the growl behind it let her know he knew better than to take her word for it.

"Don't lie to me."

Her shiver this time was involuntarily all-consuming, as his fingers slid over the sensitive skin of her neck once more before lacing through the hair that fell on either side. He leaned forward suddenly, with the eery, silent gracefulness he sometimes possessed while thinking unconsciously and pressed his lips, which were cool and dry, to her forehead.

"Don't lie to me," he repeated against her brow, and the tears Dawn had thought she had escaped earlier managed to break free from the dam that had until now been nothing but a tenuous resolve. Slender shoulders beginning to shake, and to her horror she could do nothing to mask the small sob that tore through the silence she had managed to keep until then. Once the tears came, they were unstoppable in their wrath, and the overwhelming pain that seized her chest seemed to originate from her heart and pour outwards into each vein, artery, capillary. Spike's reaction was not one of surprise; he did not falter nor hesitate to pull her to him on the couch, wrapping her in his arms and pressing her to him. Leather, soap and cigarettes engulfed her senses as she gasped for air, lungs burning from the deprivation as she struggled to stifle her breakdown.

"It hurts," she managed to exclaim, her voice raw, unsteady with emotion and muffled by his shoulder. "It hurts so much, it won't _go away._ Make it stop," she pleaded, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the memories she had managed to suppress so far successfully until then. Like Buffy's smile, the sparkle in her green eyes, the way she would laugh. Their senseless familial bickering that only sisters could do so well. The strength or warmth of her hug as she would pull her to her fiercely and say in those rare moments of intensity, "_I love you."_ And then there was the sight of a cold, dead and crumpled Buffy laying far below the make-shift platform that had reached Gloria's doorway. The supernatural doorway which Dawn had been intended to open, and Buffy had ensured remained forever closed. There had been no sparkle in those green eyes then, only a dull and faded absenteeism, and the very _essence_ of Buffy was just gone. Forever.

Panic began to rise, and as hysteria started to take over and the full force of it all truly began to settle for the first time, Dawn tore herself from Spike's arms and blindly stumbled forward, arms extending, feeling her way to the kitchen. Shamelessly she continued to sob, and without bothering to turn on the lights, she yanked open each drawer, trembling fingers passing over the useless nick-knacks and utensils until she came upon what she was so desperate for. Picking up one of the sharper kitchen knives, she anxiously yanked back her sleeve and with unsteady ragged gulps of air, pressed the blissfully sharp blade to translucently pale skin and closing her eyes, drove home.

Spike's swear was audible, and he approached the counter with inhuman speed before relieving Dawn of the knife. She hadn't had a chance to make any other marks, but the initial cut had been deep enough, hurt just enough, to pull her back from the oblivion she had been steadily ascending to. Things came back in to focus for her, and she was able to steady her breathing. She felt light headed however, and reached for the edge of the counter to keep herself steady. The knife clamored to the linoleum and Spike's arm slid around Dawn's slight waist, and with a violent jerk he spun her towards him. She reeled, the room losing focus a moment before he pinned her back against the counter.

His fingers felt like ice as they wrapped around her injured forearm and he yanked her bloody wrist up between them for her to see. It hadn't been intended to end her life. Admittedly, Dawn had used the knife once or twice in previous years as a trusted and reliable fail safe when she couldn't bring herself down from the debilitating panic attacks that sometimes, without warning, overcame her.

Spike's pupils contracted viciously, and Dawn could clearly see the longing in his eyes as he fixated on the dark, crimson blood that pooled from the jagged cut in her skin in rivulets along her forearm to her elbow.

"Why?" he rasped, his own voice unsteady, and underneath his barely-there composure, Dawn caught a glimpse of himself that he was very good at keeping in check. All rational thought left her then, and she realized the pain in his own eyes, too. Who did Spike have, she wondered? Who could he talk to, where did he go, when Willow and Tara came home with the Buffy bot? He often smelled of liquor although the scent was subtle, and not abrasive enough to cause her to wonder much more beyond recognition. To her it had always been just a part of the combination of smells that made up Spike's scent. Suddenly though, she knew he was just as alone as she was. He hurt just as much as she did; and she wanted him to forget. She wanted to forget.

"Make it stop," she pleaded, her voice although still unsteady, quieter, more controlled. She gave a soft tug of her arm, which he did not relinquish, and his gaze slipped from the blood to meet hers in mild confusion. The scent of it was heavy in the air, and if Dawn could smell it she could only begin to fathom what it was doing to Spike. "I don't want to hurt anymore," Dawn tried again.

Flexing her fingers, his gaze was pulled back to the blood drying along the inside of her arm. A blush spread out along her cheeks, but Dawn did not allow herself the privilege of embarrassment or hesitation because of it. She spoke quickly, although she knew Spike would have no trouble distinguishing her words. "I don't want to hurt anymore, I don't want to feel like this. Even if it's just for a little while. I want to feel something else," she paused, before adding, "And I want you to feel something else, too. I don't want to be alone, Spike." Her voice faltered, and she found she didn't have the strength to finish her sentence. _I don't want you to feel alone._

His grip loosened on her forearm, and Spike's hands came up to cup her face between his palms. "You're not alone," he whispered fiercely, pressing his forehead to hers. He closed his eyes, and Dawn could easily see the struggle he was having inside of himself. The ache in her own chest threatened to swell again at thought of his suffering, and she tilted her head nervously upwards, and the tip of her nose brushed his lips. If he had the need to breathe, she would be able to feel it there, along her cheek.

"_Please_," she whispered, unable nor willing to hide the desperation in her voice. She had lost her will; she had forgotten all of the good things, the _reasons_ for wanting to continue with this life. At first, struggling to move forward, to move on, because of Buffy's sacrifice was sufficient a reason as any. The resolve behind that ideology had quickly faded with each passing day however, and Dawn had even started to consider Buffy the lucky one, to have escaped the hell of the living, the hell that had become and would stay forever, her everyday.

His mouth was cool as he pulled her face to his, and the kiss was as desperate as she felt. Her knees trembled and she grabbed on to the front of his shirt when they threatened to give out. Spike must have sensed her weakness, for his hands slid down to her waist, and without any real effort at all, he pulled her up on to the counter top. Clean plates which had been set aside by the sink to dry clambered to the floor, and chunks of porcelain scattered around his feet as he stepped in between her semi-parted knees and closed the distance between them. He broke away from the kiss when she took in a jagged, shaky breath. Mouths only inches apart, and his hands splayed firmly on her thighs, he locked gazes with her and she realized he was waiting for a sign of hesitation or remorse. Perhaps for her to tell him, _No, that's not what I meant._ Truth be told, Dawn hadn't known what she had meant when she had pleaded with him only moments before. She didn't want to think about it. Sliding her hands slowly up his chest, she wrapped them around his neck. His head turned instinctively towards the arm that was lacerated, and he closed his eyes as if to compose himself. Squeezing her thighs, almost helplessly, he said her name.

"I want it," she whispered, and although her words were soft her declaration was firm. His eyes snapped open and he frowned unconsciously as he visibly tried to gauge her expression, decipher what, exactly, she was saying.

"Bite me."

Lips trembling, she made herself meet his gaze and at her words, again his pupils contracted. Blue eyes of the lightest kind were now all but pupil, and near resembling the blackest of nights. He blanched, but before he could pull away from her she tightened the circled of her arms around his neck (like that would really keep him there if he truly wanted to break free) and tilted her head to one side, her hair falling away to expose a pale expanse of neck; her jugular, in open invitation.

He grew impossibly still then, and she waited. Sliding her fingers up into his hair, which was a soft mess of peroxide waves, she encouraged him to lower his head. His hands slid up to grip her hips, his hold surprisingly firm, and he shuddered as he took a deep breathe, inhaling her scent and becoming intoxicated by the heady beat of her heart.

"Please do it Spike," she re-iterated, his hesitation driving her near mad. She closed her eyes and willed him to give in, and waited for only a few tense seconds until his resolve crumbled. One hand sliding up to the small of her back, Spike pressed her firmly to him while the other slid up to weave his fingers through her hair. He was not rough as he pulled her head further to the side, but it was not gentle, either. She knew he had lost the fight, and he growled her name helplessly against her throat before she felt his fangs and the tear of flesh. Lights danced along her vision, and a sudden warmth flooded her accompanied by a euphoria so unexpected that she she moaned, and yielding to him completely.


	3. in the beginning

Had she any idea of the effect she had on him? How damn near impossible it was to simply hold her within the circle of his arms, the scent of her a combination of sweet almost childlike innocence and yet, the most alluring, spicy aroma of power he'd ever come in to contact with since the Slayer? And the very thing she asked of him, it was almost enough to drive him entirely over the edge. Her arms circling his neck, his hands firmly on her thighs. Closing his eyes, he struggled to regain some self control; self control that had slipped, near crumbled entirely when he had pulled her face to his for that kiss. Buffy's face swam in his mind; green eyes dark, disappointed. _Betrayed._ He could only damn himself for being unable to resist.

"Bite me," she had whispered, her voice trembling, although the conviction behind her words was more than audible. The mere thought caused Spike to shiver; his mouth salivating. Their gaze met directly, evenly, and she did not look away from him as his mind struggled to wrap around the command —invitation? Her very existence, proximity, was devastatingly intoxicating and the heavy beat of her heart only aided in persuading the demon of which he fought with inwardly.

"Dawn," he growled, almost helplessly before his hands, as if on their own accord, slid up her back to press her ever nearer to him, and fingers lacing through her hair, he guided her head further to the side. Lips drawing back, he pressed his mouth to her soft throat and felt his features change. The transition was as smooth and quick as his fangs as they sank down into her skin. The blood flowed freely into his mouth, and he could have dropped to his knees from the sheer ecstasy of it had he not been holding on to her. She in turn let out an alluring moan before yielding entirely to him, and the submission was both arousing as well as satisfying to the demon that raged inside.

Spike drank deeply of her before he managed to tear himself away, and even then the separation was enough to cause an immense feeling of remorse. Not for what he had done, but for the loss of the connection, the warmth of her body against his and her blood as it coursed from the jugular. Dawn sagged slightly, and holding firmly to her shoulders, Spike closed his eyes and forced himself to regain his composure. When he opened his eyes, Dawn was looking at him through partially closed lids, her face pale but expression one only the swoon of feeding could elicit. He was tempted to return to the wound on her throat, everything about her from posture to the way she clung to his forearms all but inviting him back, but by some semblance of a small miracle he managed to keep himself in check.

"Dawn," he said softly, and when she did not acknowledge she had been spoken too, he gave her a quick, curt shake and spoke her name more firmly. "_Dawn._"

The dazed expression seemed to clear from her eyes, and a more familiar countenance slowly took over her features. She glanced around the kitchen, before her lips parted and she lifted a hand to her neck. He scowled as he surveyed the damage; her shirt was definitely garbage-worthy, and then there was still the issue of her arm that needed tending. The bite mark on her neck was most certainly not a convenient contribution in relation to the mess of her arm, and once the haze from the feed had worn off, Spike's mind switched gears in to over drive.

He would not allow himself a moment to think about the ramifications of what had just taken place, and easing the shaky girl off of the counter and back on to her feet, he glanced at the clock above the stove before cursing mildly.

"Come on then," he said as softly as he could, taking her uninjured arm and leading her towards the stairs. "I'm going to take care of the mess in the kitchen," he explained in reference to the plates, "but I'll get to that once we've got you cleaned up. C'mon now, this way."

Dawn followed complacently up the stairs and to the bathroom, where he left her to retrieve some form of shirt that would cover up the damage in the mean-time. A baggy sweater hanging on the back of Dawn's door would suffice for now, and he helped her wash the blood off of her arm and clean the cut before bandaging it. She sat almost listlessly on the toilet as he leaned forward to examine her neck, and he grimaced inwardly. It hadn't been a messy bite, but it was far deeper than Spike would have ever intended to deliver –as if he had ever intended to do this—and still bleeding. Pressing some gauze to the side of her throat, he instructed her to staunch the blood flow while he dug through the first-aid kit.

"Is it always like that?" she asked quietly, the sound of running water from the tap the only other noise to be heard on the second floor.

"Always like what?" Spike asked, hoping the dismissive tone of his voice could deter her from continuing with her line of questions. Unfortunately for him, it did nothing to sway her curiosity, and she turned to look at him with clear eyes. He could feel her gaze on him and he slyly avoided meeting it by continuing to root uselessly through the small compilation of band aids and medical tape.

"Does it always feel so..intense?"

Spike's hands stayed over the mess of toiletries, and he grew very still. Mulling it over quickly in his mind, he toyed with a proper way to word what he was going to say next. Truth be told, in all of his years, and even with the Slayer under his fang, he could not deny that the experiences shed a pale light to what had taken place between them in the kitchen. He couldn't discern what he was feeling, and so he opted for an easier route to take than the truth. "I'd imagine so," he began, holding fast to the dismissive tone he had used earlier, "I mean...it's a hell of a lot easier to enjoy it if it's mutual." Looking up, he flashed her what he had hoped to be a mischievous grin, "It's not usually like that, though."

Dawn's expression caused his own to sober immediately, and she continued to press the gauze to her neck while looking at the other hand which was toying idly with a frayed piece of denim on her jeans. Was it disappointment? He couldn't be sure. "Oh." was her only response.

"Right then, let's have a look."

He set the first-aid kit alongside the tubs surround, and kneeling down, gently eased her hand away from her neck. Already, a dark bruise was beginning to form around the bite marks however the bleeding had stopped and he cleaned it fastidiously before motioning to the sweater he'd snatched from her room.

"Change in to that, I'm going to bring the shirt out with the trash once I've finished cleaning up the kitchen, alright?"

Dawn took the sweater, and she held it between her hands in silence, staring down at the fabric as if it were completely foreign to her. Spike couldn't help but hesitate near the door; he could sense that she wanted to say something. Part of him wanted to run; the other part remained rooted, mesmerized by the sound of her soft intake of breath.

"Will you kiss me again?" she asked, and he blanched at the question, his mind utterly unprepared for it and in no way able to conceive of an appropriate response. Stupidly, he uttered, "What?" before clearing his throat. He now truly had no idea where she was taking this with him, and he was already going to be in a load of shite if not more, at the mercy of the red headed witch and her girlfriend for what had taken place tonight. Why not burn him on the cross as well? Just to be thorough.

Dawn's brow furrowed, and another moment of silence crept in to two before she lifted her head. "I want you to kiss me again," she exclaimed. Her cheeks were flush despite the loss of blood, and all the more adding to her allure. Christ, was she aware of the effect she had on him?

Dawn's heart hammered in her chest. Maybe she wasn't thinking straight; in fact, she knew she wasn't. Head light from the loss of blood, and throat still burning from his supernatural kiss, all she knew was that a doorway had been opened between them, and inexorably she suddenly craved his nearness in a way that she hadn't before. It was impropriety at it's finest, but she could not help the words that left her mouth anymore than she could stop herself from unsteadily getting to her feet and taking a step towards where he lingered uncertainly by the door.

"I don't know what you want to happen Bit," Spike began as she took another step towards him. It excited her in some sick way that his eyes fell to her mouth, and she knew without a doubt that he was hesitating because the thought to acquiesce to her request was more tempting than it should be. "But I've done enough harm here than need be already, I don't want to make things worse than they've already become."

"Worse?" Dawn asked, the bitterness in her voice surprising even herself. She stopped her approach, and fiddled with the sweater in her hands. Dropping her gaze, she stared down at her trembling fingers before continuing unsteadily as Buffy's empty stare swam before her in her mind, "You're the only person that's made any of this better."

"Oh platelet," Spike bit out, sounding truly distressed. Wringing his hands from his sides, he let out a frustrated growl before stepping closer to her and pressing his palms to her cheeks, turning her face upwards towards him. "You've no idea what this is doing to me."

"I do though," Dawn whispered, eyes large and lips unsteady. "Because you're doing it to me."

He kissed her then, his hands firm on either side of her face, and she returned the kiss as best she was able. The sweater slithered to the floor between them as it deepened, and Spike claimed her lips with a desperation Dawn felt deep down inside of her core. Wrapping her arms carefully around his neck, Spike's hands slid down with certainty now as opposed to hesitation, fingers spanning out over the gentle slope of her hips to pull her flush against him.

He pulled away after a moment to her disappointment, and pressing his forehead to hers, she savored the feel of his breath along her lips as he tried to compose himself. She could feel the effect it was having on him through the hardness in his jeans pressing gently, but insistently against her belly. His grip on her sides was firm, but she could sense something in him that was better left alone and she knew already that they had crossed more than dangerous lines tonight.

"I'm sorry." she whispered, a wave of apprehension suddenly consuming her. She withdrew from him shakily, and knelt down quickly to retrieve the fallen garment of clothing. Spots danced in front of her eyes, and she fell to her backside, groping for the cabinet by the sink to steady herself. "I'm sorry," she whispered again. Spike knelt so that their gazes could meet and they watched one another in silence for a long moment, before he helped her lift her arms and remove her shirt. Goosebumps spread out along her skin, and she burned in an entirely new way as she let him drink in the sight of her exposed flesh. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to the unharmed side of her neck, and she froze as he trailed kisses down to her shoulder, his cool lips pausing along the strap of her bra, before he held the sweater up for her. It slipped over top effortlessly, and as it settled he pulled her gently to her feet.

"I'm going to clean up the mess downstairs," he said unevenly, before leaving her to stand alone in the bathroom.

Turning on her heels, she stared at herself in the mirror; pale and waxen, eyes huge and reflective underneath the harsh fluorescent light. Where did this leave them? The apprehension returned, and biting her lip, she closed the first-aid kit and set it away, before turning off the light and making her way down the hall to her bedroom. She could hear the clatter of fallen dishes below, and collapsing on to her bed, she curled in to a small ball and stared from the darkness into the hallway, where the light cast an eerie illumination about the doorframe. She was tired now that she had laid down. From crying, but also from what had taken place between them.

Once the adrenaline was gone, and all that was left were more questions than when she started, Dawn pressed her face in to her pillow and couldn't help the one that rang over and over again inside of her head, _What have I done?_


End file.
